


Things gone unheard

by DrowsyNelapsi



Category: MediEvil (Video Games)
Genre: OC backstory, She dies pretty bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2021-01-03 13:28:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21180203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrowsyNelapsi/pseuds/DrowsyNelapsi
Summary: Sort of like a backstory for my MediEvil OC, Lady Rhiannon. Publishing here in 2019 to I guess celebrate the remake? For something I wrote in 2017 it's not the worst.





	Things gone unheard

Every morning before dawn's break she walked through the garden. It was well before any servants of the estate would be attending to the flora and Rhiannon experienced the grounds in their purest beauty. Upon the falling of summer’s latest evening, she found among the plants a deviance. The herbs were browning well before they should have been ripe, or even overly so in any case. The horehound was ruined at the leaves so that they curled and shriveled inward toward the plant.  
  
Rhiannon investigated further. There were no obvious marks of disease. The ground was perfectly balanced in moisture, not horribly dry or saturated. She dismissed it as a poor misfortune and discarded that concern to be taken care of by the groundskeepers.  
  
The Lady had other affairs to be attended to. Her Lord Such-and-Such would be going to the castle soon enough. He planned on taking her along on the excursion. All her dressings had to be refined and so she retired to her chambers to adjust herself. Her wimple hardly clung well enough to the frame of her face—she tugged her veil this way and that to compensate. At moments it was too tight and nearly strangled her. She grunted and pulled it back down to counter the discomfort. After the short struggle she assessed her reflection. It was...well enough for the visit. She wouldn't remain in the king's attendance any longer than she had to.  
  
“My Lady fairest!”  
  
Rhiannon rolled her eyes. He had such a talent for uttering the most sickening phrases to try to flatter her. Lady Rhiannon rose from her vanity and went to the door.  
  
“My Lady, are you ready?” He cooed up the stairs. “I am awaiting you!”  
  
_If he were to sing my title any further I would name him a befouled bird, for his tone is a pestilence to any that should hear._ She fastened her girdle so it better held her skirts before departing down the stairs. Her form easily made the trek down to him, but only because she hid any conviction that would hint at the true strain the descent made on her spirit. The man smiled and took her hand. She suppressed a cough.  
  
He began to speak shortly after setting out.  
  
“King Peregrine expressed regret at never having known you to be in the halls.”  
  
She disregarded him and cleared her throat. This evoked a frown from her lord.  
  
“Won't you be more light in spirit? He really is a fair man.”  
  
“I do not doubt it.”  
  
The sparse response gave little food for the lord’s encouragement. He turned away and avoided furthering discussion of the topic. She entered the gates with him in authoritative silence but this proved futile when the lord, seeing other guests, burst into vibrant conversation.  
  
“Ah! There goes the duke and duchess Farthington!” Like an exuberant dog at the leash he dragged the struggling Rhiannon into the throng. The lord bounded over to his target, the paired duke and duchess. Rhiannon diverted her gaze from them whilst the lord jumped to friendly banter. Rhiannon knew neither of these people.  
  
Her companions busied themselves making merry in the king's party. All court-goers were decked in colors while Rhiannon stood a stranger in casual attire. After trying for many minutes to take joy at the host and his gathering, the lady became bored. _I've borne enough exhaustion being with this man for the past year of my life. Enduring his acquaintances is a whole new labor, outfit for Hercules._  
  
She took herself from the throne room in favor of the corridors winding throughout the building. Rhiannon turned several paces—the lord was paying no mind. A little spark rose in her to know that, for once, she was safely outside his supervision.There could be peace when his constant, puppy-like attention was avoided. She went onward, passing the members of the court.  
  
The king was not distasteful but her intrigue refused to be entertained by his stale cordiality. He held no company that could capture her imagination and this made attending the main party useless. Her vision casted in his direction. He did not notice the pervading glare being had on him and his court. She recalled that the king shouldn't have noticed her at any rate, as the lord had said, she had never walked these halls. _I will walk these halls soon enough, but no courtiers should know me._  
  
She explored for the sake of exploration. She scolded herself after acting upon the juvenile impulse, but freedom so close at hand could not be left to escape the grasp it forever evaded. Rhiannon clasped freedom tight in her palm. Its splendid colors unfurled forward like a butterfly's wings, begging to be investigated. In the course of investigation, however, the lady stumbled upon something she hadn't expected. The colors of freedom turned darker and eerie as she traversed. The pigments of freedom were painted in liberty but tinted with fear.  
  
Somebody would be waiting in these forbidden places, full of concern and questions to be thrown at her upon sight. If she crossed the wrong paths, she resolved, she would own her actions. At every bend she anticipated onslaught. Never once did she sigh relief, knowing that the possibility of assault remained. _How comes it that the corridors of a castle, situated high on the peak, should feel so deep and foreboding as a sepulcher miles below the earth? What forsaken architect planned such an expanse that it should feel as if Abbadon and its legions await me just ahead?_  
  
The prospects of warmth and companionship lost their credibility in the passages. Could it be that her and her husband were truly together in this same building moments before? He felt like a dream now, him and the party an intangible haze situated at an indeterminate distance above her. This was the reality: the certainty of ever-expanding darkness.  
  
Light existed here, too, and at intervals she found miniscule burning torches raised against the shadow. _Pitiful torches in my pitiful effort..._The dominant force remained unquestioned. A doorway offered up its light but she didn't believe it could help her in the quest. That was until she realized the magnitude of the glow from within.  
  
She stopped. The light emanated from beneath an oaken door, tucked hidden into a recess in the wall. She stepped forward—the door was cracked. Rhiannon took the handle and began to slowly draw the door towards herself. It made no noise, no deadly creak that would signal her presence. She wondered if anybody could inhabit such an isolated room. There was an aura of life gone cold.  
  
“Oh, the blasted thing is dry. I'll need more of those putrid vials for this business.”  
  
Rhiannon’s brow furrowed. The noise confirmed a living being, a man, but the tone was like death crawling down her back. Nothing of the words’ content sickened her, but the _voice. If the Lord had bestowed kindness in all his children, this one was left without its share. He forgot of this man's heart, and this man has forgotten Him._ She envisioned a perfectly loathsome, godless being standing in the room, center stage to some sick production of evil. Yet, as the man muttered more, she wanted to confirm the truth of his countenance.  
  
Her hand quivered as she pulled the door in the slightest. The effort to move it only millimeters proved more taxing every moment she had the handle. She wanted enough space to peer around the lip of the door’s face. Impatience told her that the gap would allow her room enough to see as she had it. Rhiannon put her nose to the edge of the door and held her head parallel to the entrance.  
  
Indeed, a corporeal man owned the voice. His form did not stand on the ground, it rose up like the ruddy trunk of a brutish, gnarled tree. He did not walk, he crept on spindly, precarious legs. The fingers grasping his trident told of twisted roots wrought about a pole. The silhouette of his head garment resembled the horns in grotesque artwork, painted in the darkest portions of scripture where fiendish creatures mocked man and bred like swarming insects.  
  
“_Rosemary_? Hmph, this book thinks me a gardener, doesn't it?” She watched the man shake his head and turn from a pedestal where a large volume sat. He returned to a dilapidated shelf heaped with vials. Watching him stride from station to station made her ill. _How could something so wretched walk and uphold itself so proudly? Let it sit so that I could have peace knowing it brings no harm to my brothers and sisters._  
  
A knot formed in her stomach. _Let him sit. Let him sit and stop with this work. What does he work on? I see a noiseless form laying on the stone bench of his crafting._ He added the contents of a vial to the noxious steam of the cauldron distant to her. The brew glowed the color of emeralds.  
  
“Rosemary! I wouldn't have guessed.” He dipped a ladle into the stinking broth. He raised it back up, laden with the thick liquid, and splashed it down all over the face of the motionless person. She didn't understand why he would be pestering a sleeping person so, but when it rose she had to withhold her terror.  
  
The form cried out and shot upright from its position. Its eyes were rotten in the sockets, all flesh green and pale. The teeth were so long that the gums were hardly visible. It reached out for something unseen, mouth agape. It continued to groan and cry a pitiful song, begging that the godless man let them sleep. The tree-like man looked over his work with content.  
  
“Another exemplary result!” He croaked. “But it isn't quite time yet. You must be quiet, now.” The necromancer knocked the cadaver back with his trident and the undead slept again. He returned to his book. Rhiannon ground her teeth while she looked on. He was still smiling subtly in satisfaction.  
  
_How can he smile?_ Her hand twisted the knob. _He's the most wretched being I've ever looked upon._ She wrenched and wrenched the knob._ I must tell the king about these practices. _The door creaked.  
  
The man looked up from the pages of the book. Rhiannon had already pulled back away from view, but he had heard. Zarok marked his page and his wiry legs carried him to the door. She could hear his shoes on the floor. Closer, closer, thump, thump on the stone. She calculated how close he was, she could visualize the distance from her every step. Then a pause. Rhiannon held her breath. He had stopped in close proximity. She could not hear his breath, she could hear no noise.  
  
He threw the door open. Rhiannon stood in the full light of the doorway, frozen but poised for immediate retreat. The man sneered.  
  
“Oh, so I had company, didn't I? Well, my lady, you could be a part of my practice if you so choose.”  
  
_One of his bodies he means? Or aid him? I would sooner worship whatever dark thing he works for!_ Rhiannon regarded Zarok with cold eyes.  
  
“I won't accompany your sick acts. Go to Hell where your master bids you.”  
  
The thin fingers grasped either side of her face. She felt her body being swept forward, so swiftly that she wasn't sure the expanse of the sweep. His fingers were cold spots on her jaw, creeping like freezing ice up her veins. They were savage and loveless hands, as the hands of a thief. They were made to rob and degrade all they touched.  
  
She tried to recall the party above. There was revelry and warmth there accompanied by a prosperous and joyful court. She knew nobody there but she wanted nothing more than to be in the group’s attendance. Even her husband, dull but valiant, had no knowledge of her whereabouts. _He pesters me every day out of his good will, but he fails to save me when I'm captured by the hands of a perverse fiend! Damn his socializing!_  
  
Rhiannon didn't know what this place was or how she should have found herself with this vile man. All she knew now were the innumerable spots on her body growing deathly cold. Her hips, her sides, her chest were raked by the frigid claws on all sides. She felt them like icicles grazing the softer areas of her skin. She needed to be rid of his vile touch.  
  
Rhiannon hurled herself backwards. There came the shrill noise of ripping fabric and she struggled ferociously on. _I don't need my dressings intact if the exchange for it is my life! Let me be free!_ The lady cried and shouted, throwing her limbs in defiance of the imprisoning hands. _Let me be free!_ Her nails sought out the closest flesh.  
  
“Be still, or else I'll discard any thoughts of sparing you!” The sorcerer spat disdain, barking for her silence. Rhiannon did not yield. She fought harder, grabbing his hands and wrenching them away.  
  
“I'd sooner die than tolerate your work! Cut off your lecherous hands!”  
  
Zarok released her. She fell forward, growling. She saw the door and bolted to her feet. _I must run, I must escape—_Just before the door, her wimple was yanked back into the room. The frigid hands returned to overtake and destroy her. Rhiannon grabbed at her throat. She gathered the white fabric in her fists. Her hands twisted the fabric in an effort to loosen the man's grasp. With every action to free herself, the enemy doubled his retaliation.  
  
The white cloth tightened beyond reclaim. Her throat burned with pain. Her lungs screamed for the suffering to end. She needed air. She couldn't keep fighting if the vice was not broken. Her knuckles gleamed white as her fingers bore into the cloth, playing tug-of-war with the devil behind her. It was a game she couldn't afford to lose.  
  
The ring of fate crushed her airways. Against her will, her body refused to combat anymore. No strength would aid her. The ring constricted tighter, tighter, tighter yet until the sorcerer felt no more resistance. When he let go, the body collapsed. He stood over the lady, waiting for her to engage in battle once again. No movement. He prodded her with his shoe, rolling her on her side. Her body stayed slumped.  
  
Zarok hoisted her off of the floor. He merited her struggle, really. _I should bind her body. If she were to awaken in the course of my magic, her vengeance would be impeded by nothing. _The sorcerer dragged her out the door. In the hall he could hear the distant chatter and laughter of the king's party.  
  
His lip curled in disgust. _You must have scampered off from that party like a dirty rat, didn't you?_ he thought, looking down at her. _Either they are very inattentive or nobody cared. I wouldn't be surprised in any case._ Zarok listened to the noise. There were no discernible calls, no worried cries from above._ Nobody noticed her disappearance._  
  
He was safe to stow her away far beneath the castle, where the dark held all and told nothing.


End file.
